


Atheist's Delight

by INMH



Series: Merry Month of Masturbation Fills (2019) [6]
Category: Robin Hood (2018)
Genre: Discussion of Torture/Death, Drama, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Power Dynamics, Sexual Content, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18368198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: The Sheriff finds Robin of Loxley’s ambition to be… Charming.





	Atheist's Delight

There is no God.  
  
The Sheriff feels no guilt, and he can do as he pleases so long as the right money goes into the right coffers.  
  
At the madcap parties, the egregious displays of excess and wealth, he always stays reserved. He drinks, but never enough to get drunk; he flirts, but never goes to bed with anyone; he enjoys, but he does not revel so publicly. He could not expect to retain his power if he so willingly allowed the wildest parts of himself to be visible to anyone and everyone that mattered, could he?  
  
Still, there are moments when he slips.  
  
Even moments when he wants to.  
  
Robin of Loxley is young, a highly unusual mix of Lord and war veteran, battle-hardened but not so much as to lose his youthful looks and charm. The Sheriff senses cleverness, a hint of mischief beneath the smooth, calm demeanor. It’s the ambition that catches the Sheriff’s eye, though: Ambition can be dangerous, can indicate intent to usurp, or to thieve something from him; it can also be useful in some forms, especially if molded and directed and mollified by someone stronger.  
  
The Sheriff is confident, with shivering satisfaction, that Loxley possess the latter sort of ambition.  
  
And as a strong personality himself, he feels up to molding that ambition.  
  
Using it.  
  
Loxley wants something, because of course he does- everyone does. No one casually offers to throw up so much money in favor of catching a thief unless they want something in return. But the Sheriff senses something cunning in him, a sort of kindred spirit that craves what the Sheriff himself craved when he was young: Power, the sort that can crush a man or elevate him to the sort of heavens the church promises them after years of penance. If the Sheriff rewards this ambition, if he feeds Loxley a little to keep him sated, Loxley could turn out to be a very interesting sort of acolyte of his. A dog will always come back to the one that feeds him well.  
  
So the Sheriff cracks a little and shows some sincerity: He tells Loxley of his time in the children’s home, and the way the Lords and their men used to come around at night and torture the boys. He tells him a lot- not _everything_ , he’s not looking to expose his rawest and ugliest parts to someone he’s not completely sure he trusts yet- but he tells him more than he’s told anyone else in a long time.  
  
“Shall we hang a few of them?” He asks, “Those Lords? Just to see them… _Shit_ their silks?”  
  
Loxley’s expression until this moment has been disturbed, and the Sheriff cannot tell whether it’s in reaction to the story _or_ to the Sheriff’s demeanor whilst telling it.  
  
Then his expression shifts.  
  
“Why don’t we just hang _one_ of them?” Loxley says, a cold mischief entering his eyes, the small smile that unfurls on his face. “’Cause I suspect the rest would soon fall in line.”  
  
The Sheriff, against his better senses, feels a heady rush of delight. Loxley is a rare breed, a Lord without the pretense and the pompousness. There’s an authentic air to him even as he keeps his hand close to his chest, and the Sheriff likes it. Other Lords make half-hearted jokes about wanting to strangle some of their fellows and the Sheriff chuckles agreeably, even as he thinks of putting each and every _fucking_ one of them in a cage and boiling them alive. Loxley is the first Lord who’s whispered something in the same vein of this desire candidly, with a wicked, subtle cruelty that speaks to his intelligence, his malicious hope to see the high and mighty brought low.  
  
Loxley maneuvers closer to the Sheriff, whose blood trills with delight at the possibilities. He has to repress a shiver when Loxley leans in and says, “I am not after crumbs. I want a seat at the big table.”  
  
The Sheriff stares at him, into the intense gaze of the young man sitting before him. There is always a risk in cutting deals with Lords, especially one as cunning and ambitious as the Sheriff suspects this one to be. But he has not gotten to where he is today by playing things safe, and Loxley is _so_ very intriguing.  
  
“Well, then, you’ll be sure to keep my favor, Loxley.”  
  
Loxley’s smile is a subtle, playful thing. “Of course, sir.”  
  
“Fortunately, it’s not difficult to keep my favor.” The Sheriff fixes Loxley with a look that is at once powerful and smooth, utterly confident and in control. “If one knows how.”  
  
His hand settles on Loxley’s thigh.  
  
The younger man’s gaze jumps sharply to meet his with an expression he can’t decipher; the Sheriff is reflexively, instinctively anxious until he remembers that Loxley is at his mercy, not the other way around. The boy would do well to remember who it was that shipped him off to the Holy Land before he does anything unduly rash. “Sir?” He asks hesitantly, uncertainly even though he obviously understands the nature of the Sheriff’s gesture.  
  
The older man smirks. “Loxley?” He squeezes gently and hears Loxley stifle a quick gasp. If Loxley were going to react with violence he would have by now, so the Sheriff leans in and catches him in a kiss; push forward while the defenses are weak and the opponent will crumble.  
  
And after a moment of stiff unresponsiveness, Loxley does crumble.  
  
The Sheriff knows for a fact that Loxley’s never wanted for lovers, and suspects the hesitation comes strictly from the fact that they’re both men. He is accustomed to taking the lead, accustomed to being the larger of the pair; he is not accustomed to being the smaller, the weaker, the more inexperienced. And so he submits to the Sheriff without a fight, reciprocating with tentative uncertainty.  
  
The Sheriff wants; Loxley wants too, and this makes good ground for an arrangement that could be beneficial for both of them.  
  
A rap on the door interrupts them, and the spell is broken: They immediately break apart, Loxley scooting back on the couch to put some additional space between them. The Sheriff slides a hand through his hair reflexively, fearing a tell-tale mess. He spares a glance at Loxley to make sure he looks presentable before barking, “Enter!”  
  
The guard that enters stands at attention. “Sir, some of the guards from the recent theft have a report for you about their findings.”  
  
The Sheriff silently curses at their timing. The prospect of taking Loxley on that couch had been becoming more and more appealing. “Fine. I’ll be along presently.” The guard- not one of the smarter ones, evidently- doesn’t get the hint. The Sheriff makes sure the glare he gives him _burns_. “ _Out._ ”  
  
“Right, of course, I apologize, sir.” He steps out, shutting the door behind him.  
  
The Sheriff turns to Loxley as he stands. The young Lord looks a bit dazed. “I must attend to this.”  
  
Loxley’s gaze clears; the mask of propriety slips back into place. “Of course, sir.”  
  
“Perhaps…” The Sheriff’s fingers reach out to ghost along the back of Loxley’s hand, and the younger man shudders. “Perhaps later, mm?”  
  
Loxley nods almost drunkenly. “Yeah, yeah, I- yes, sir.”  
  
The Sheriff leaned in close.  
  
“You’ll be hearing from me, Lord Loxley. That, I can promise you.”  
  
What a wasted opportunity.  
  
That night, the Sheriff is still hotly _bitter_ about being interrupted with Loxley. It’s been a long time since he’s been with a man he could even briefly entertain going to be with: The ones that didn’t mean to usurp him were too stupid to keep their mouths shut and know their place. Loxley, it seems, is intelligent enough to know his just fine and is willing to play within his constraints.  
  
The Sheriff likes that.  
  
Well, he is nothing if not a patient man; he can wait for his chance with Loxley, because it will surely come, and entertain himself in the meantime.  
  
In bed, his hand slips between the sheets and his legs.  
  
“Sheriff,” Loxley whispers in his fantasy, shrinking beneath him on the bed and clutching the Sheriff’s shoulders with the nervous grip of a man who’s never been below another before.  
  
“Beg,” The Sheriff whispers as his hand flies over his cock, teeth clenched. “ _Beg_ me for it, boy.”  
  
“Please, please,” Loxley sobs, wailing as the Sheriff imagines spearing with all the violence of his usual sexual encounters. He is rarely soft with his lovers and Loxley will be no exception.  
  
“Mine,” The Sheriff hisses, yanking himself roughly enough to bring enough pleasure and pain for an orgasm. “ _Mine._ ”  
  
“Yours,” Loxley will tell him. “Yours.”  
  
The Sheriff always gets what he wants, one way or another.  
  
-End


End file.
